


Coming Clean

by anais



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anxiety, Band Fic, Bro-Liam, Coming Out, Ed Sheeran might be a wizard, LGBTQ Taylor Swift, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Or maybe it is, Panic, Sharing a Bed, Tour, Tour Bus, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, loose canon compliance, mental health, sometime around 2014-15 I guess, unspecified tour
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-04-19 11:27:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14236296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anais/pseuds/anais
Summary: A meeting with the record label puts a strain on Harry's relationship with Louis and, if Harry really thinks about it, a strain on his relationships with everyone else in his life, including himself. On a freezing cold day in the middle of a European tour, the heater breaks on the bus, and Harry sort of breaks too.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally a standalone piece, but it felt unfinished so there's more to come.

It was somewhere between drizzling and snowing, and it was freezing on the bus. They were in Eastern Europe and had been since, Harry approximated, the beginning of time. Harry had slept in thermals and two sweaters and could still feel the cold in his bones. He rolled himself ungraciously out of his bunk, thumping heavily onto his hands and knees, fished around for a pair of tracksuit pants to pull on over his long johns, and picked his way absently toward what management optimistically called a ‘kitchenette’ but that was realistically a 2-cup electric kettle that shorted out the whole bus and a sink that ran water unsafe for human consumption.

When they had to spend nights on the tour bus – an occurrence that was blissfully, increasingly rare – Harry was usually the first to wake up. He wasn’t exactly claustrophobic, just constantly and uncomfortably aware of the tightness of the space. It was worse on the odd days, such as this one, that Leon, their scruffy, cheerful, bastard of a bus-driver, would turn over the engine early and start driving while they were still asleep (something Harry was fairly certain was illegal). Harry had woken as they trundled onto the highway, not exactly claustrophobic, and not exactly carsick either, but somehow adjacent to both and facing the prospect that he would be unable to relieve that thin thread of anxiety for at least a couple of hours.

“Leon?”

“Yes, Harry?” Leon had a warm, scratchy baritone and a cheery pan-European accent. Harry wondered where he came from. He wondered if it was around here somewhere, if they’d drive through it.

“Is the heater on Leon?”

“It is, what is phrase? Busted. Broken. We can get it fixed tonight, Berlin. Is cold, huh?”

“Yeah, pretty cold,” Harry agreed resignedly.

Harry had poured himself into the booth dubbed the ‘Kitchen Table’ and pulled out his laptop, expecting to be alone for at least an hour before someone – most likely Liam – woke up to distract him. He only got as far as forgetting and then remembering his email password, though. Shivering, red-eyed and clearly furious, it was Louis who flopped onto the vinyl seat beside him, “s’fuckin freezing.” Louis said, foregoing the more traditional ‘good morning’.

“Mmm,” Harry responded, turning from his computer just for a moment, allowing himself to mentally catalogue Louis (eyelashes a little gummy, wearing Niall’s sweatpants, far too thin at the moment) just briefly before returning to his emails, though he was now merely staring at the screen rather than even managing to read the titles. Louis sometimes did that to him – sort of short circuited his brain.

Louis had a low tolerance for cold weather because he had roughly the body-fat of a race-ready greyhound. Louis also had a low tolerance for early mornings and a fair affinity for late nights. He looked wrecked, and not only was he still slightly trembling next to because he was freezing, but maybe also slightly vibrating with misdirected anger that it was ever allowed to be so fucking cold, “Don’t we have fucking heating?”

“Broken, Leon says. He’s gonna get it fixed tonight.”

“I’ll be dead by then,” Louis said decisively, with no hint that he considered this an exaggeration.

Six months ago, Harry wouldn’t have hesitated. He would have pulled Louis into him, offered silently to at least share some of his own body’s feeble warmth while they waited to get to a rest stop and hopefully some hot coffee.  Six months ago they’d not even have spoken yet. Louis would have flopped into Harry, all soft fleece and jutting bones, and demanded that Harry share his precious body heat. But there had been a meeting, and then a fractional shift that had fast become an unsurpassable fissure in their friendship.

*

It had been summer, and sunny, and a Friday afternoon and Harry had felt relaxed and happy and excited. He had the whole weekend off, and Gemma was coming down, and he and Louis were going out with her. They just had one meeting, at three, at Simon’s office but not with Simon. Harry had assumed it was going to be something to do with merchandise sign off for the tour. Whatever it was, Harry had been certain it would turn out to be boring and he just wanted to get a takeaway and maybe go dancing.

Louis had been with him, had driven him in. The warmth of the day had rendered Louis languid and slow, a sun-drenched lizard, but nevertheless, even in the dim, cool underground carpark he was smiley and bright and Harry had wanted so much to reach out and take his hand. The impulse came to Harry, tingled gently in his fingers for a moment, and then passed. They happened so often, Harry barely registered them.

“Are the others meeting us here?”

“Guess so,” Louis smiled at Harry, a somehow sweeter, gentler smile than the one he’d been wearing all day, “Haven’t heard from anyone.”

“Gem wants us to pick her up from the station, then I thought we could get maybe thai?”

“Thai is good,” Louis nodded, “or what about that new Spanish place?”

Louis jabbed the elevator button for floor three, Harry had moved into the corner and pushed up on the rails, dangling his feet off the ground, “Maybe, but I don’t really want to eat in a restaurant – do they deliver?”

“Dunno,” Louis shrugged.

They had nattered inconsequentially as the elevator zipped up, and as they wandered the corridors, and then they’d sat side-by-side, thigh to thigh, flicking through some photos on Harry’s phone while they waited to be summoned or for the others to arrive. Harry had felt, maybe, peaceful. The time on the couch seemed to stretch endlessly onward, outward.

“Harry, Louis?”

When Harry heard his name it was like being woken from a dream. He hadn’t been familiar with the severe-looking woman who greeted them, but he knew her now. Alice. Fucking Alice.

She wore an expensive-looking tailored suit in a grey-blue shade that somehow reminded Harry of old snow. Harry stood and reached his hand out, in that moment totally unconcerned, still riding on his peaceful high, “Yes, hi! Sorry, we’re the only ones here so far, I could give Ni a call?”

The woman didn’t seem even momentarily put out, “No, that’s okay. I only need the pair of you today. Come through.”

Harry had shot a look at Lou. He wasn’t sure what it was communicating – confusion, exasperation, trepidation? Louis had quirked his eyebrow in return. Something indefinable, tight and unwelcome had coiled in the pit of Harry’s stomach.

Alice had introduced herself and explained that she worked in PR, image management and branding. To Harry, this sounded similar to the sort of job description a literal demon from hell might have, but a boring one.   They had sat down, just the three of them in a boardroom. Harry had been there a few times before that, always with the rest of his band. A computer was plugged into the projector and Harry had felt annoyed that the cords were all tangled.

Without preamble or explanation, Alice simply said, “I’ve got some videos to play for you.”

Harry was so young in the first video he had barely recognised himself. It was an X Factor video diary. The tight knot in Harry’s stomach gave way to furious butterflies. By the fourth video in, sitting in dead silence except for tinny, poorly recorded audio piping out of the laptop, Harry knew exactly where the meeting was going. His throat went dry. The videos ticked on, segments of tour journals, snippets of performances, interviews, a candid fan video of Harry and Louis walking through a venue standing close, wearing one another’s sweatshirts. Even to Harry, it looked like they might be holding hands.

Harry hadn’t been able to look at Louis, neither the man beside him nor the image of him on the screen. He could only stare at the shifting image of himself. His face felt hot and pinpricks of sweat collected at the nape of his neck. He could see it so clearly in every moment of footage – he seemed to drift into Louis’ orbit unwittingly, finding reasons to touch him, lean into him, even just _see_ him, sometimes. In one interview, Harry had tipped so far forward in his chair to watch Louis tell a story he was nearly out of shot. He laughed too hard, too long, too often at anything Louis said. In more than one video he was just staring at the other man, glassy-eyed, lips slightly parted.

Fuck.

The little spark of energy that usually just made Harry bounce about like an excitable puppy fuelled a torrent of anxious thoughts that Harry could barely process. Had he been that obvious all along? Did everyone know? Did Louis? Harry couldn’t parse his feelings, he was confused (his baseline, most of the time, but worse in the greyish light of the soulless boardroom). Harry couldn’t even open his mouth, scared somehow that he’d say something immediately incriminating. In waves, the most acute and persistent feeling washed over him: shame.

Before the show-reel of Harry’s most oblivious moments was even finished, Louis cleared his throat, “Sorry, Alice, I don’t understand why you’re showing us this?”

Harry still recalled how measured and polite Lou’s voice had been. How subtly terse. Harry remembered how dry his throat was, how once his eyes had dropped to his lap, he couldn’t bear to raise them.

“We’re concerned that the way you two behave with one another is beginning to damage your relationship with the fans,” there was a thin veneer of kindness in the tone of Alice’s voice, but no hint of warmth in her eyes, “It is of no business of ours what you two do behind closed doors…”

Harry remembered his chest aching at the unfairness of that statement. How he’d wanted to protest and how he wished that behind closed doors they’d ever done anything more than lie beside one-another, at least a hands-width apart, eating cereal and watching Ready Steady Cook.

“But at the end of the day you boys are a product and you need to be aware of how you’re selling yourself in these interviews. It isn’t appropriate for your audience to - ”

“Harry and I are mates. Best friends. Like brothers. I don’t know what you’re getting at, there’s a thousand videos of us hanging out together. We bloody live in the same flat. There’s also a thousand videos of me hanging out with Niall if you want to bring him in here and tell him to behave himself.”

There was a heavy thump in Harry’s chest when Louis said ‘like brothers’. Somehow, Louis’ calm detachment made the rolling panic of Harry’s thoughts worse. He was overreacting. Of course he was. He knew he was. He wanted to walk out. He chanced a glance at Louis, who had remained still, and calm, and, maybe angry? Angry at Alice? Angry at him?

“Of course,” Alice’s even reply crawled under Harry’s skin, “There’s no need to be upset or worried. Management just wants you two to be aware of how you’re… coming off. It doesn’t require any radical action… we just thought you should perhaps be aware of it. Think about where you sit in interviews, maybe how you act on stage. You could take turns to go grocery shopping, rather than going together – that sort of thing.”

“I’m sorry, Alice,” Louis was professional, poised, no longer the sun-warmed lizard but a cool, focussed predator. Harry had thought he looked dangerous, “This is ridiculous. Am I ‘sposed to move out of the flat too? Should I call Ele and see if she’s up for a bout of rigorous public sex just in case someone momentarily forgets that I’m straight? I’m doing everything Simon asked me to do with Eleanor. Harry’s flown to New York twice now to get papped with Taylor. This is getting bloody exhausting.”

Harry couldn’t hold the thread of conversation. He felt disconnected from his body. This was the realisation of a nightmare, his stupid crush, or mad first love, or whatever it was that drew him to Louis like a floppy, wing-torn moth to a lamp, laid out in front of him like the disgusting, pathetic, damaging thing he always feared it was. He’d tried to mask his panic, tried to arrange his features into disinterest and annoyance, and probably failed.

 “This is the business, Mr. Tomlinson, this is the game,” Alice was unflappable and unapologetic. She seemed focussed on Louis, and had more or less ignored Harry, which suited him as he quietly lost his shit, “We’ve done the research. We know how it works. If you want to continue having the kind of success you’ve had – if you want that for your band – you need to keep playing.”

Harry had the unusual urge to call Taylor. He had her number. She whatsapped him sometimes, usually pictures of her cats or photos of her doing shots with Ed Sheeran. When they’d walked through Central Park she’d been nice. Sweet, and sometimes funny. She’d been so fucking reserved though, Harry had wanted to ask her what it was like to be her. He wanted to know if it was the same for her as it was starting to be for him. Maybe she’d been through this. Maybe he should have just said it, ‘Hey Taylor, you’re great but being forced to do this fucking sucks’?

Instead, he’d let the awkward silences stretch longer, wishing he was Ed Sheeran, or anyway, literally anyone other than Harry fucking Styles.

Abruptly, Harry had stood, pushing his chair out from under the table.

“Well if that’s all,” Harry had finally found his voice, surprisingly strong and forceful despite the wicked flood of emotions flickering unbidden through his head.  

“That’s all.” Alice had agreed, standing. She held her hand out for Harry. Harry stared at it like it was a tentacle, looked up at Alice like she had four heads, then turned and walked out of the room. He was at the elevator when Louis caught up with him.

“Fucking stupid bunch of knobs. What a fucking waste of time. Fucking can you believe this shit? Fucking, fuck.” Louis already seemed relaxed, no longer poised to strike. His barrage of swear-words was lyrical, like he was about to laugh.

Harry had tried to summon so much as a smile in response, “Ha… yeah, fuck.”

“You alright?”

Harry had wanted to say yes. All he managed was a shrug. He wasn’t sure what he was, but ‘alright’ didn’t seem to factor. The urge to flee was overwhelming, “Let’s go, we’ll be late for Gemma.”

When they were outside again, it was still sunny, but all the warmth had left Harry. Louis chatted and chain-smoked and tapped along to whatever he was playing on the car stereo. He was charming with Gemma, and warm with Harry, not even a little bit distant until Gemma had said she was ready to go out.

“I’m alright, actually, love. You two go, don’t want to be a third wheel,” Louis had kissed Gemma on the cheek and then held the door open. The panic that had never really left Harry flared again. He wanted Louis to come with them. He wanted the night to be normal, and to forget the whole afternoon, and forget that he’d ever felt anything other than brotherly affection for Lou. Louis staying home had felt like the rug being pulled out from under him again.

Gemma guided Harry to a trendy bar, and Harry had gotten abominably drunk on a dangerous combination of any drink that found its way into his hand. He’d texted Taylor, and then he’d texted Ed. Taylor had called him almost straight away, and she’d been sweet and funny and _present_ in the conversation. Harry had told her he missed her, and Taylor had sounded genuinely distraught, “When are you in New York? I’m not even touring for like…” her voice had faded while she pulled her phone from her ear to look at her calendar, “Months. We’ll have a coffee, darlin’, it’ll be okay.”

Ed had replied with a photo of a beer, which to Harry had seemed like very sage advice indeed.

Harry had danced with Gemma, and then with three or four strangers, some who seemed to know him, most who didn’t seem to give a toss.

Gemma had wrangled him into a cab at some time after midnight, “what’s the matter Haz?” She had slurred, tipsy and happy and always so fucking tuned into Harry’s moods. Or maybe just very aware that Harry had vomited onto a tree to which he had also tried to apologise.

“S’nothing,” Harry was holding onto his seatbelt, wringing it. The distracting, pleasing way his body had relaxed as he’d gotten drunk was now a distant memory, and then he only felt sick and sticky and full of sugar and sadness. He couldn’t stop himself. He started to cry – big, earnest, ugly tears, silent, but heaving painfully at his shoulders.

Gemma had said, “Oh no, Harry… do you want me t’call mum?” and then she had known, somehow, not to ask anymore questions. The painful effort of muting sobs softened to hushed sniffles, but Harry could no more stop crying than stop breathing. He was overcome, it was no longer only Louis. He had cried for the pain of the stupid secret he didn’t want to keep, that he wasn’t even sure was a secret. He had cried because he felt so proud and so ashamed of who he was. He cried because he was tired, and a bit because he was drunk, and also because he sort of wanted some chips but he couldn’t stop crying long enough to tell Gemma. He’d cried all the way home, and he’d cried while Gemma steered him into bed, and he’d cried while she shushed him and gave him a glass of water and petted his hair.

“It’ll be alright in the morning Hazzy, whatever it is.”

Harry had cried until he fell asleep.

*

Liam emerged from the bunks uncharacteristically late, and, infuriatingly, dressed only in a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms.

“Wassup sluts?”

Harry closed his eyes, praying for strength that this not be the day he knee Liam in the groin. He turned to Liam and smiled, “Hey. Aren’t you cold?”

“Nah, gonna get my pump on. I bet you burn more calories if you exercise like, while you’re freezing.”

“I think it’s less, mate.” Louis had made a trip back to the bunk and found a thick blanket (well, not so much found, as taken it from Harry’s bunk) and had put on every piece of clothing he found discarded anywhere on the bus (or neatly folded in other people’s draws). He had arrived back in the kitchenette wearing Harry’s fluffy blue blanket like a cape and looking like a self-satisfied snowman.

Harry had expected Louis to stretch out on the small couch, but instead he sat back down next to Harry. Silently, and with a gentleness that made Harry purse his lips, he’d tucked the corner of the blanket over Harry’s knees. He arranged the rest of the blanket over his own chest and settled in to dose.

At some point, Harry had abandoned his computer, swung his back against the window, and without much thought, tucked his socked toes just slightly under Louis’ thigh. The shared warmth beneath the blanket felt luxurious, and Harry was too tired and too cold to be self-disciplined, and anyway, Louis hadn’t shifted away. He’d chosen to sit there. Louis hadn’t made a peep for almost an hour, and Harry was occupying himself with a novel Niall had left on the bench, assuming Louis was asleep.

Liam launched into some pseudo-scientific justification for his ideas about ice weight-lifting or something, making a little show of starting his workout. Louis was casually shutting him down with every exaggerated, made up, or blatantly incorrect statement Liam spouted, clearly amused. Liam trudged on, unperturbed, grunting exuberantly as he did his bicep curls and saying stuff like, “Yeah but science can’t predict like, everything about the human body, Lou.” As if that settled any part of the debate.

The bus pulled to a stop just as Harry was thinking about putting his headphones on.

“Cup of tea,” Louis was suddenly energised and single-minded at the prospect, standing and disappearing back into the bunks, probably to try and find more clothes.

Harry stretched his legs out, then his back, and tried to remember where he’d left his slippers and gloves.

“S’wrong with you Haz?”

“Hm?”

“You’re quiet.”

Liam, bless his heart, and bless his biceps, was trying. Harry shrugged. There was this big, stupid part of him that was suddenly desperate to offload. He’d come out before. Not to anyone he thought might react badly. Not to anyone in his band. He imagined telling Liam, just now, just saying it, ‘Liam, I’m gay.’

Or maybe he could go further, ‘Liam, I’m in love with Louis.’

He wondered how Liam would react. He remembered once being at a party with Liam, saying goodbye to some friends who were leaving early, and Liam saying, quietly, “Shit, I didn’t know they were fags,” and laughing like he’d said something hilarious as they walked out.

But maybe it was the kind of good-natured homophobia borne of ignorance and an inability to properly introspect, rather than any kind of hateful or bigoted thoughts.

He had also told Harry once that the film Brokeback Mountain had made him feel sick. So maybe not.

Still, one day, he’d have to tell them. And if Liam was going to hate him, then, that was that.

“Too cold. Tired, couldn’t sleep. Need a break I think.”

 “Oath, we all do. Can’t wait to go home.”

“Aye, me neither lads. Where are we anywhere?” Niall clasped Harry’s shoulder. He was bright-eyed, his hair was a fluffy little crown, “S’cold?” he added mildly.

“Uh… on the way to Berlin? I guess Germany? I don’t know,” Harry shrugged, reaching up to pat Niall’s hand on his shoulder as he did, “Heater’s broken.”

“Sucks,” Niall sighed.

“Zayn up?” Liam asked.

Harry spotted his sneakers, toed into them, and sat down again to tie the laces. Louis was already bouncing by the front door wearing a ski-jacket from which is legs protruded like toothpicks stuck into a lemon. Harry ran a hand through his own hair, wondering if he had an elastic somewhere to tie it back.

“Yeah he’s coming,” Louis mumbled, “hurry up, hurry up, hurry up, lemme off.”

Harry made his way to the front of the bus and pulled the door inward. Louis snuck beneath his arm and bolted. He was halfway across the tarmac before Harry could even register it. Harry trod on after him, figuring the rest of the guys would catch up.

Wherever they were in the world, it was beautiful. They had, at some point, left the disconsolate sleet behind. It was still cold. Harry’s cheeks and fingertips felt immediately bloodless. But there was a hint of the kind of crisp, preserving chill that made Harry think of Spring mornings. In the end, he never made it inside the service station. He stood on a lip of raised concrete, letting his feet angle forward, and stared toward the bus and the wilderness behind it. Niall, Liam and eventually Zayn seemed not to register him as they bee-lined into the little shop.

“Watcha doin?”

Harry started a little, slipping until his feet were flat on the concrete, slightly pigeon-toed.

“Um.” He replied cleverly.

Louis thrust a coffee into Harry’s hand, “Got you this.”

The warmth of the paper cup against Harry’s now frozen fingers was blissful, “Oh. Ta. Thanks.”

Louis shrugged in the way Harry knew meant, ‘don’t worry about it’. They stood in silence for a moment. Louis took a sip of his tea, and Harry, reflexively, took a sip of his coffee. It was bitter, but the warmth was gentle and welcome.

“I want a cigarette,” Louis said.

“We’re at a petrol station,” Harry replied.

Louis nodded in consideration of that information, “Yeah, better not.”

Louis started back toward the bus. Harry followed a step behind. A few paces from the bus, Louis stopped so suddenly in his tracks that Harry nearly ran into him. Before Harry could even ask Louis what had happened, Louis spun toward him. Harry gasped, “The fuck? Lou, What?”

They were so close. Harry could feel the warmth of Louis’ tea against his chest. His own coffee was still in his hand, but raised above his head, where he’d hoisted it to avoid soaking Lou.

“I just wanted to…” there was the longest pause. Every part of Harry was a frozen statue except his heart, which was pumping so quickly Harry thought it might be visible through his sweaters. The moment hung suspended between them, “I just wanted to say I think we’re in a hotel tonight.”

“Uh… huh?” Harry was so sick of feeling wrong-footed. Why was he always a step behind, “did something happen?” He hadn’t really even processed what Lou had said, he may as well have been speaking German.

“No,” there was a sort of momentary expression that passed over Louis’ face. It looked, maybe, mournful, “we’re in a hotel tonight. I just remembered. Isn’t that good? Heaters. Proper showers.”

“Y-yeah… it’ll be… lovely.” Harry’s eyes were scanning frantically over Louis’ face. He’d been chewing on his lips – they were red and swollen. Harry’s chest tightened a little. Harry could hear Niall and Zayn behind them comparing weird German snack-foods.

“Just thought of it. We should room together, we haven’t in ages.” Louis shrugged, turned back to the bus and climbed up. Leon materialised from somewhere. He was holding a bag of cinnamon rolls and a litre bottle of soda. Breakfast of champions.

“Mr Styles, you are holding cup above your head. You are like Liberty Statue.”

“Erm… yeah.” he sorted his face into a grin for Leon, lowered his arm, and climbed after Louis.

*

The remainder of the morning’s drive was uneventful. Everyone was subdued by the cold. Louis and Zayn amused themselves playing FIFA. Niall had reclaimed his novel. Liam was on his laptop, occasionally reading out segments of ‘hilarious’ listicles or saying things like, ‘wow, this article says I need to up my reps or I’ll end up with too many short muscle strands.’

They reached Berlin just after midday. Leon dropped them at the hotel and disappeared with the bus. They had a brief meeting with some Tour Wranglers. Harry was never really sure where they came from, but they were never far away with itineraries and hotel key-cards and memos and reminders.

It had once been an unspoken tour tradition that if there were two rooms, Harry and Louis would share one, Zayn and Liam the other, and Niall would alternate between them. If there were three, they had a rota for the person entitled to the single room. For the last six months though, Harry had almost always roomed with Niall, or alone. He wasn’t sure if it was by intent or design, but it suited him to fall asleep with the lights on while Niall devoured weird golf-based romance novels or skyped his girlfriend.

It wasn’t better than lying in the dark, a foot away from Louis, chatting until they both fell asleep. It wasn’t better, but it was safer.

*

After Gemma left, the mood in the flat had become immediately strained. Harry had been unable to relax around Louis (or at all), convinced that every moment he was in the other’s presence, he was making himself an obvious, desperate tart. Avoiding Louis had been despairingly easy, however. Louis was almost never around. They had once spent most days more or less together, building their schedules around one another, planning meals and shopping and cooking. Lou suddenly seemed to have a lot of evenings out with Eleanor, and if not her, then his mates from back home.

Every time Harry came home to find the flat, dark, empty and cold, he developed a strange headache and a feeling that he couldn’t quite label. It was uncomfortable, like jealousy, and loneliness and frustration, but also relief. Harry had taken to going to night classes at the gym during the week and getting exceptionally drunk on weekends. When he and Louis did, occasionally, find themselves home together, Harry felt as if they may as well be on different continents. They greeted each other cordially, like roommates who weren’t even really friends.

A few weeks had passed this way, then they were scheduled to fly to the states. Harry and Louis had taken the same taxi to the airport. Harry had actually felt… almost normal. They chatted in the taxi, Harry had even made Louis laugh.

They’d met up with the rest of the band and a Tour Wrangler named Marie who they sometimes called Tour Mum at the international departures check in. Checking in as a band with a touring entourage was a kind of slow-burn logistical nightmare. Harry just did as he was told, hoping to escape attention, media, manager or fan, as much as possible.

After standing in line for nearly an hour and having his photo taken by lazy, sleep-deprived looking paparazzi about a million times, but thankfully not yet having been swarmed by well-intentioned but shrill, screaming teenagers, Harry excused himself to the loos. He peed, washed his face in the sink and whatsapped his mum that they were safe, and leaving soon, and he’d call her from LA.

He’d ambled back to their place in line, pausing when he saw Lou pulling Marie and Niall aside, just a few feet in front of him. Harry was partially concealed between a tall, possibly artificial, indoor plant. Straight away, he’d known he wasn’t supposed to hear this conversation. Louis had scanned the area, but his eyes kept sliding over the thick, plasticy green leaves of the fake ficus concealing Harry.

“Niall, do you mind… and don’t like, read anything into this or, whatever. Marie? Can you switch my ticket with Niall’s?”

Niall had gone, “Fine, why?” all clueless and happy-go-lucky.

“S’nothing. Just wanted a window seat,” Louis had shrugged. Harry could see Marie’s face, her raised eyebrow, from behind his pot plant.

“Yeah no worries. Didn’t Harry want to switch?” Niall asked.

Lou had made a funny noise, nearly keening, “Ummm, I wanted a window seat on the… port… side of the plane. I heard it’s better for jetlag.”

“Ahh,” Niall nodded. Everyone was aware of how poorly Louis coped with jetlag. Harry had once seen him trying to fit an entire pillow in a hotel microwave. Everyone was equally aware of Niall’s well-intentioned gullibility. He would believe, without question, almost anything presented as a factoid. It made leaving Niall and Liam together a very dangerous prospect.

“I’ll sort it out then,” Marie had agreed.

Instead of rejoining the group, Harry had gone to the newsstand and picked up a crossword book. He stared at the puzzle 1, clue 1 (across), 5 letters, ‘Bishops Hat’ until his phone buzzed – Marie, asking him where he was, as they’d checked in and needed to clear security with or without him. Harry debated about how taking a taxi to his mums instead of flying to LA would impact his career. Instead, he bought six puzzle books, a pen shaped like a small dog, and a pack of chewy mints, and shuffled over to security hoping he’d fall over and break his leg and have to miss the flight.

*

Harry had met up with Taylor in New York. They’d made sure to get themselves photographed getting coffee, and then Taylor had performed some kind of sneaky, city-based white-witch magic to get them back to her apartment without one single more paparazzi encounter. She seemed different to Harry than she’d been last time. She laughed more often. Her jokes were dirtier.

Taylor’s apartment was ridiculously luxurious. Everything was soft-finished, round, warm and clean. Taylor’s cats wandered around, aloof and particular. One of them (Harry couldn’t keep their names straight), wound up in Harry’s lap, purring. Taylor had disappeared for a while, and came back in cuffed sweatpants and a hoodie that nearly reached her knees.

“We’re getting day-drunk, right?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Excellent. Wine, beer, spirits? Uh… I think I’ve got like, margarita mix, if you want to get real sex-and-the-city with it.”

“Is it sex and the city, or sex in the city?”

“Don’t know. I’m having wine.”

“Good. Fine.”

Taylor emerged from the kitchen with two enormous glasses of something dark red. To Harry, it tasted expensive, maybe French. Harry wished he had big comfy sweats to change into. He slipped out of his shoes and tucked his feet up on the couch. The cat on his lap barely moved, unperturbed and kneading with flat paws into his chinos.

“So,” Taylor said.

“So,” Harry agreed. He was frightened because he knew why he’d come here. His anxiety in the silence tinged everything awkward, just for a second. Harry thought about leaning forward to kiss Taylor. Would she push him away? Harry imagined not – he thought, maybe, she’d kiss him back and then politely, painlessly, ask him to leave.

Harry could see the thick, iron door that kept Taylor from the rest of the world slowly rise, as if she was reading his thoughts. Harry didn’t want that to happen. Harry liked Real Taylor, she was… weird. Funny. Comfortable.

“So,” Harry started again, his voice cracking slightly. He took a long sip of his wine and patted Meredith-Or-Olivia slowly, “So, I’m gay.”

It was the first time Harry had said it out loud. He had thought about saying ‘I think I might be…’ or even saying ‘bisexual’, but when it came to it, ‘I’m gay’ had been what his mouth had formed, and now it was out in the world. And he hadn’t told his mum first, or his sister, or his best friend. He’d told Taylor, who was almost a stranger.

He just thought she’d understand.

Taylor didn’t say anything. She didn’t reach out for him or try to comfort him or squeal ‘that’s great!’ or shriek and run away in horror. She just sat there, receptive, still listening.

“I’m gay. And nobody knows… and… well I think management thinks that I am. They think I’m fucking Louis, actually. I’m not. But I think I’m in love with him. Or a crush. I don’t really know the difference I’ve never been in love before and the last time I had a crush I was eleven, and it was on a music teacher, and I didn’t even know what a crush was I just thought he was cool and wanted him to like me, so I pretended that I was a huge fan of the Beatles, because he said they were his favourite. I made my mum buy me a book about them and I used to tell him Beatles facts just, out of nowhere… fuck, I got my hair cut like Paul McCartney. Like, my curly hair. He probably thought I was the weirdest fucking kid.”

Harry had never told anyone that story either. His face had flushed against his will. It was kind of thrilling, and a little sickening, and so liberating to actually speak all of it out loud.

Taylor was laughing a little, “Sounds like you were the weirdest fucking kid. I had a crush on a teacher when I was in grade school, I think. An English teacher. I told my mom about her. I was concerned that I was a lesbian, and I told mom… I was like, seven. All scared. I didn’t really know what a lesbian was, just that it was bad and involved liking other girls, and she said,” Taylor’s southern drawl widened and her voice developed a lighter, slightly more nasal lilt, “’Taylor it’s normal at your age to think older girls are pretty and funny and interestin’. It’s not a crush, you just want to be like her.’ And I did, a little. Boy did that screw me up for a while though. Thinking I just wanted to be like everyone I had feelings for. Some weird fucking phases,” Taylor paused to take a sip, “She actually had a book, too, like, from when she was in highschool, about how having a crush on your female teacher didn’t make you a lesbian and you should just get a boyfriend. Like, where did she get that book? Why did she have it? I should ask her.”

“So are you…” Harry screwed his nose up a little, because it sounded like an insult to ask, which seemed stupid, and because he was so unused to talking about this shit, and he wasn’t yet tipsy enough to find it easy, “So are you gay, then?”

“No, not really. I’m just…” Taylor shrugged and tilted her hand side to side, “kind of into whatever. God, it sounds like a huge fucking cliché but… I’m just into who I’m into. Doesn’t matter about the gender or… sometimes it’s… more than one person,” Taylor made a face, as if she couldn’t stand the way she’d phrased it, and then she shrugged, “I should figure out a way to put that better. I’ll think about it. But we’re not talking about me. What’s happening?”

So Harry told Taylor everything. About meeting Louis for the first time. About how he’d felt when he was told he’d be in a _band_ with Louis. About saying it in his head for the first time – that he might be into guys. About sleeping with a girl from his old school just to try it, just in case, just to be _sure_ he couldn’t be straight or at least, maybe, bisexual. About how poorly it had gone. Of course. About how complicated it became when Louis went from being an acquaintance, to a band mate, to his best fucking friend.

After a while, Taylor had gone into the kitchen and returned with the bottle and a handful of bags of snacks.

Harry plowed on, unloading crashing waves of unspoken fears, heartbreaks, concerns. Taylor was a good listener.

“I thought… I thought I’d be over it by now. If it was a crush. That’s why I think maybe… I’m in love with him. And what the fuck am I supposed to do with that? He’s my best friend. He’s got a girlfriend, he’s straight… and… even if he wasn’t that doesn’t mean he’d be interested in me… and it’s so unfair to even… and then… then the record label called us in for this meeting.”

Harry told Taylor about the meeting with label, and Taylor very nearly spat her wine at Harry.

“They fucking what?”

“Well it was just one lady… uhm… Alice, she… had this…” Harry laughed. It did sound fucking ridiculous. He rubbed his hand over his face, “This fucking compilation of videos. Of me like… staring at Louis, fucking hell.”

“That’s fucked. They fucking outed you, that’s disgusting. I’m sorry. I agreed to do the stunts with you cause I thought your guys just wanted to boost your profile over here and I had a new album coming out and like…” she shrugged, “I had no idea they were just trying to force you into a beard. And it would be one thing if you wanted a beard…” She shook her head, “Fuck.”

“So your management doesn’t force you into this? The stunts and…” Harry waved his hand in the air, “All of the boyfriends?”

Taylor shook her head, her mouth full of spicy kale chips, “my choice, totally. I just think… I don’t want to have to explain like, why sometimes I’m in a monogamous, heteronormative relationship and other times I’m in an open poly dom-sub kind of thing. I mean, and, sometimes I feel pretty much asexual, you know? I’m happier just having fun coffee dates with a bunch of friends and doing what I do … in private. It’s kind of nice actually, to have this part of myself that’s not for public consumption.”

Harry nodded. They’d finished the first bottle of wine at some point, and the sun had set. Taylor had dug out more wine and let Harry talk until his voice was hoarse. Harry talked about his mum for a while, and tried to figure out why he hadn’t come out to Gemma and came to no conclusions. They’d watched a horror film on Netflix, and at some point, ordered pizza.

“Taylor?”

“Mm?”

“What about Ed?”

There was a long silence. For a while, Harry had thought _he_ could be in love with Ed. Ed was just the sort of person everyone was maybe a bit in love with. And Harry had seen Taylor with Ed – seen Ed talk about Taylor. There was _something_ there. Harry was drunk enough and tired enough just to ask, because he was curious.

When Taylor responded she sounded dreamy and, maybe, a little sad, “Yeah. What about Ed?”

Harry had turned to her, their faces grey-blue in the light of the Netflix selection screen.

“I kind of think there are some… some relationships that you want so badly. Maybe sometimes both of you. But they’re…” Taylor paused, seeming lost for words for the first time that night. Maybe for the first time since Harry had met her.

“I don’t even really know if Ed ever thinks about us that way. We’ve never… you know. It’s never been right. But…” Taylor was very good at holding eye contact, and usually much better at articulating her thoughts, “I would never rule Ed out of any part of my life.” She said, finally.

Harry hummed in agreement, “Yeah. M’neither. Just probably he’s very straight.”

“Like, aggressively so,” Taylor agreed, “So weird, right?”

“Completely fucking weird.”

Taylor got the giggles after that, and eventually, wine-drunk and free, Harry had fallen asleep in Taylor’s opulently appointed spare room amongst fifteen enormous pillows, framed platinum records, portraits of cats and photos of catwalk model Karlie Kloss.

*

Harry had been mostly tuned out of the ‘who’s sleeping where’ conversation in favour of fantasising about a hot shower, which could happen literally as soon as they were free from the endless briefing about what time they had to be in the lobby to be transported to soundcheck. 4:30. Why was it taking Marie a million hours to tell them that.

“Do you mind, Harold?”

Harry furrowed his brow at Louis’ pet name for him, “Hn?”

“Well there’s four rooms, but you and I haven’t shared in ages, right? So, we’ll share.”

“Oh. Yeah. No. Whatever, that’s fine.”

In Harry’s head, though, little floating bubble question-marks were forming and then popping around Louis’ face. He wondered if maybe he’d slipped into some kind of hypothermic coma, or if maybe Germany was in some kind of wonderland-like alternate universe where months of awkward avoidance was resolved because of some slightly uncomfortable temperatures.

“Good. Okay boys. Four-thirty, don’t forget. On the dot.”

Harry resisted the urge to rolls his eyes and pulled his duffel onto his shoulder, then tailed the boys to the elevator.

“Everyone keen to go out after?” Zayn queried, his eyes still a little red-rimmed but considerably brighter than Harry had seen him yet that day. Zayn was usually almost all the way awake by some time after 2pm, “There’s this epic club in Berlin, literally impossible to get into, but I know this girl who says she can get us in.”

“Fuck yeah,” Liam nodded, “Are you talking about Berghain? The fucking Church of Techno?”

Harry’s love for anything EDM was more or less non-existant, and his love of sleeping in real beds was deep and wide. He only ended up out with the boys about once every third time, anyway, and less recently. Originally it had been because he was a little younger, a little less able to keep up. More recently, the thought of loud, airless rooms and Liam’s attempts to ‘hook him up’ or ‘get him smashed’ just grated on him. He usually didn’t even bother to say no, they rarely expected him to go.

“I’m in,” Niall nodded.

“Louis?” Zayn asked.

“Nah mate, didn’t sleep at all on the Hell Bus.”

“Maybe tomorrow then, we can double-head it,” Liam nodded, self-satisfied. The elevator doors opened. Liam, Niall and Zayn each found their rooms, and Louis lead the way to theirs, tucked at the end of the corridor. It was actually a nicer hotel than they usually stayed in. Or at least, relatively newer. The carpet was clean and the walls were freshly painted.

“I call first shower,” Louis stated, swiping the key.

“Piss off,” Harry replied almost reflexively. That made Louis laugh.

“I’m just fucking with you, I could literally hear you thinking about it downstairs. S’all yours.”

Louis pulled the door shut behind him, and the ambient sounds of the hotel disappeared. It was just them.

Alone. Truly alone for the first time in… Harry couldn’t even remember. Before they’d left for Europe. Maybe since the cab ride to the airport for America, because Harry had spent the break at his mum’s and not in their flat.

“Thank you,” Harry said, after such a long pause that Louis had apparently forgotten all about the shower. He was just staying in the tiny corridor against the door to the bathroom, peering curiously at Harry.

“Huh?”

“For the shower.”

“Oh, sure… I’ve been meaning to ask, are you okay? You seem… I dunno. You’re quiet today. Are you getting sick? I was gonna ask earlier, in the carpark, but then all the guys were there. Thought you might not want an audience.” Louis shrugged.

That was the second time that day someone had asked him if he was okay. And the first had been Liam, the world’s most unobservant human. Maybe he _was_ getting sick. Why did it seem like today, for no reason, the comfortable, uncomfortable awkwardness he’d built into his routine with Louis and the new walls he’d made to keep his big gay self away from his band had all been tipped sideways?

“I’m fine. It’s just hard to get enough sleep… on… tour…”

Lou’s eyes narrowed as Harry trailed off. Harry had let the sentence fall away because even to him it sounded like a canned response he’d give an interviewer.

“You’ve seemed quiet all tour, actually… Haz, what’s wrong? You can tell me.”

The acutely uncomfortable setting of the conversation was doing nothing to relax Harry. Why were they standing in the entrance to a hotel room? Lou hadn’t even put the key into the slot to turn the lights on. Harry felt frustrated. What was Louis trying to get at?

“I dunno, Lou. I’m really tired. And I’m really cold. I want a shower.”

He stepped past Louis and into the room to discover… a single king-sized bed. He closed his eyes again, then swung his duffel onto the bed and sat down beside it.

“Lou… there’s only one bed.”

“Hm?” Lou emerged from behind the tiny corner. He’d turned the lights on.

“There’s only one bed.”

Louis shrugged, “Doesn’t matter?”

“Oh.” Harry felt stupid. It probably didn’t matter. It felt to Harry like it mattered. To Harry, it kind of felt like the end of the world.

“You’re seriously okay?”

Harry felt frustrated. He just thought, maybe, Louis should already know. Of course he wasn’t okay. He hadn’t been okay for months.

And surely it had been a conscious choice on Louis’ part to studiously avoid spending any time with Harry the last six months? Surely he could figure out that it would hurt Harry. And if he thought Harry deserved to be hurt, then why would he be so cruel as to ask if he was okay? How could he be okay? He’d lost his best friend. He’d barely seen any of his old friends, he’d barely seen his mum. He just existed. Shuffling on and off the tour bus. Doing as he was told. His throat felt tight, and he was angry at that, at the urge to just start crying.

“I’m just really tired,” Harry said again, “I wish… I kinda wish we didn’t have a show tonight.”

“That’s not like you.”

“I’m gay.”

Louis didn’t seem to hear him, “It’s gonna be a mad show tonight Haz. Have a shower and a nap, we’ll get some... what’s german food? Sausage? And... did you just say you’re gay?”

“Yeah.”

Harry didn’t know what else to say, so he just sat, staring at Lou. He expected it to feel more momentous. He was still frustratingly close to crying, he thought it was better not to try and talk. Louis didn’t seem to know what to say either.

“I… didn’t… wasn’t aware of that.”

That answer seemed a little nonsensical. It also didn’t sound quite true.

“Well… yeah… that’s why I’m telling you.”

Louis cleared his throat. Harry felt kind of delighted that it was now Louis that looked wrong-footed.

“That’s… well, actually… I wanted to…”

There was a knock on the door. Harry looked toward the door, hoping whoever it was would go away. They knocked again.

“Lou, Haz, are you in there?” it was Liam, “Do you guys want to go get some food?”

“Uh…”

Louis had walked to the door and opened it. This made Harry want to kick Louis in the shins. Liam invited himself into the room and flopped onto the bed.

“You guys only got one bed? Fucking sucks.”

Louis shrugged, “Nah doesn’t matter,” Lou’s voice sounded kind of thin.

The suspended anxiety of coming out to Louis suddenly hit Harry like a freight train. He felt furious at Liam – couldn’t he be alone for five fucking minutes? And furious at Louis. And furious at himself and everything. The tears he was holding in where starting to hurt his chest, and he wondered if it was possible to give himself a heart attack just from panic and anger alone.

“’m going for a shower,” Harry stood up, fumbled through his duffel for clean underwear and shampoo, and had locked himself in the bathroom before anyone could say anything.

Through the wall he heard Liam asked Louis, “He alright?”

He turned on the water so he wouldn’t have to hear Louis respond. He had this weird fear that Louis was going to out him to Liam. Liam could be a huge douche-bro, but he still didn’t want Liam to hate him. What if they decided to kick him out of the band? That would suck. Harry liked being in the band. Usually.

When he emerged from the shower, the room was empty. Louis had texted him, ‘gone for sausage with Liam, talk when we get back. Do u want a sausage?’

Harry texted back ‘c u later. Bring chips.’ Then without much further thought he pulled on a sweater and curled up on the side of the bed that usually ended up being ‘his’ (furthest from the door), falling into a deep and dreamless sleep so quickly he didn’t have time to overthink it.

*

Harry hadn’t come out to Ed. Not really. Harry thought, maybe, Ed had always known. Harry wondered if Ed and Taylor were actually some type of magic person. They certainly seemed to navigate the world more easily than Harry did, and Harry was quite certain that Ed could read minds.

They’d been in New York again. Taylor wasn’t, she was somewhere south, doing something for the Country Music Awards. ‘But Ed’s there I think’, she’d texted Harry.

They’d arranged to go out with Ed as a band, but by the late afternoon everyone but Harry and Louis had declared other plans. Louis had disappeared after their first pint to talk to Eleanor on the phone, and after a few minutes Ed had said, all charming and guileless, “So I know this guy, I think you’d really like him…”

*

Harry woke up to Louis shaking his shoulder, “Harry, you gotta wake up, its nearly four thirty we gotta go downstairs.”

“What? Oh. Four-thirty. Quick, lest Marie thinks we weren’t listening to the orders. Is m’hair all fucked up?”

“Yeah. Little bit. I got your chips. They’re cold now though.”

“S’okay I bet Marie got me some bananas.”

“Yeah, cause that’s the same thing.”

Harry got so caught up in putting on clothes and the easy shorthand of the conversation that the weirdness of the morning had sort of melted away. He hadn’t forgotten what had happened, but it was easy not to acknowledge it just for now, when they had no time to do anything but get going.

“How was the sausage?”

“You know, we couldn’t find any place that sold sausage. So Liam got McDonalds and I had a sandwich from a deli.”

“Adventurous.”

Predictably, Harry and Louis were the first downstairs. Marie started furiously calling the other guys. Harry wondered why she didn’t just change the call times to half an hour before she wanted them there, because it was like this basically every time.

*

After shows, Harry always felt this kind of euphoric rush – it was better than Yoga, slightly less good than orgasms. Sort of like peeing when you really had to go, or a lemonade on a hot day, but more intense. He let the feeling carry him through a handful of meet & greets, and into the cars that were replacing the bus while it got repaired, and all the way back to the hotel.

Liam, Zayn and Niall peeled off to shower and find the energy to enjoy Berlin’s nightlife. Harry and Louis entered their room in a kind of comfortable silence. Louis took the shower first without a word of discussion, then Harry rinsed off and put on pyjamas. When he returned to the room, Louis had tucked himself into bed and was flicking through the hotel’s pay-per-view movie list.

“You want to watch a film with German subtitles, or one with badly dubbed German?”

“Mmm, subtitles I think. What’s on?”

“Did you see Interstellar yet?”

“I did actually. Anything else?”

Louis listed a few things. Harry hovered a little, delaying getting into the bed, which he felt strangely uncomfortable about.

“What was that last one?” Harry asked.

“Uh… Dracula Untold.”

“Yes. That sounds horrendous. Let’s watch that.”

“Are you sure you don’t want dubbing?”

“A thousand percent,”

“They’ve got Forgetting Sarah Marshall dubbed.”

“No, put on the Dracula one. I wish to mock.”

Harry had settled with sitting on the bed, cross-legged, on top of the covers. Everything felt simultaneously so natural and so unfamiliar. They must have done this a hundred thousand times. But they hadn’t for so long.

“I knew already, Harry. That you’re gay.”

Harry turned to look at Louis, “Oh? Because…you said… you said you didn’t know. Well you said you ‘weren’t aware’ which was… weird.”

Louis nodded, “Yeah… I mean… well I didn’t know… I mean I sort of… wondered, I guess. Back… ages ago. But you were really young. I mean we all went through… uh, phases, I guess, at that age, right?”

Was Louis trying to say… something? No, of course not. He was just trying to be understanding. Harry thought maybe it was worse that Louis had apparently known all along. That he’d thought it was a fucking phase. Or maybe it wasn’t worse. Everything seemed thin, uncertain and muddy to Harry. He wanted to have this conversation so badly, and he wanted to never ever have to have it as well.

“Right,” he finally allowed.

“And you were so upset after that meeting I thought… maybe you weren’t… or you didn’t want anyone to know, or you weren’t sure. So I left it alone.”

Harry’s face started to redden again. He hated that he was a blusher. He fucking loathed it. But it was dark in the room except for one-night light in the corridor and the glow of the TV, so that was okay.

“And then… I didn’t mean to Haz, but I saw some texts on your phone… from Derek?”

“Oh. Derek… no, that’s okay… Derek was… I was… we… it didn’t…” Harry wanted to try and explain everything about Derek, and what had happened, so he started four different sentences that told Louis nothing and then said, “It didn’t work out…”

“So I knew.”

“You knew. Okay.”

“Haz… it’s no big deal.”

Of all the things he expected Louis to say, that wasn’t on the list. Like the king-sized bed, like cold chips. Just no big deal. Harry’s torturous journey of self-discovery reduced to something Louis was going to shrug off.

“Actually Louis… actually it is a big fucking deal. To me.”

To Louis’ credit, he allowed Harry’s anger to fill the room. Didn’t try to quiet it or say it was unfounded.

“I’m sorry. I said that wrong… I keep saying the wrong thing… I meant to say, I know it feels big at the moment. And I know it’s probably been something horrible that you’ve been carrying around but… it’s okay. You know, I’ve… I’ve done stuff with guys. Eleanor knows about it… it’s just, not even a big deal anymore. You’re still my best friend… it doesn’t change anything.”

“That’s bullshit Lou. This is the first conversation we’ve had in six months that wasn’t about the weather or the tour.”

Harry tucked the knowledge that Louis had had gay experiences quickly into the safe lock-box he had for such fantasies. It didn’t exactly surprise him – since coming out to Taylor, he’d met lots of people who’d… experimented. He knew it didn’t mean Louis was anything other than straight.

“I… sorry Harry… I thought I was giving you space.”

“You were avoiding me.”

“I wasn’t… I just… I didn’t want you to think I was buying into it. I know you’re not… I thought you might be gay, but I never bought into that shit about you being in love with me.”

Harry turned to Louis suddenly, trying to read his face in the darkness. Lou looked impassive, staring at the selection screen for ‘Dracula Untold’. This was it. This was the moment. He was going to have to say it. And maybe lose Louis forever. But what difference would it make? He couldn’t keep living the lie and he couldn’t stand to limp on with the half-truth.

“Fuck…” he said first, softly, then, “Fuck,” again, turning away from Louis so he wouldn’t have to see even the suggestion of emotion from the dark shadows of the other’s face, “I… I t-think I am though, Lou… I’m sorry. I know this isn’t fair… fuck I can’t anymore. I think… I think I am in love with you. I… think…” Harry took a deep, slow breath that did nothing at all to steady him, “I think I have been since… since I met you.”

The pay-per-view movie selection screen had a soundtrack, and it had looped several times since Harry and Louis had started talking. There was a 30 second silence between each loop, so the silence that followed Harry’s confession seemed to suddenly deepen.

“Oh…” Louis breathed out, just as the menu music started to play again, “well…”

“I don’t… I could leave the band if you wanted. Or whatever… it doesn’t matter I can…”

“Harry, shut up, no-one’s leaving the band…”

“I can… I should leave… I should go… I can sleep in Niall’s room, or… fucking… just get my own room, or something, and… it’s not like I would… I haven’t ever… I’m sorry… I’m s-sorry…” Harry was very aware that he was spiralling, rapidly and uncontrollably, into inescapable panic. He couldn’t remember where he was supposed to breathe from, but shallow gasps from high in his throat didn’t seem to be working. He was stuck on the phrase ‘I’m Sorry’, it just kept stuttering out of his mouth.

Harry was a little prone to panic attacks, he knew that about himself. His mum had once called him ‘pleasantly hysterical’. Louis had even seen him have a few. He’d been mostly better at managing it recently, though. He just couldn’t remember how. Breathing? Jogging? He couldn’t remember how to do either of those things.

“Harry, shut up, no.” Louis was sitting up, and he’d taken Harry by the wrists.

“S-sorry I’ll… sorry.”

“I said shut up. And stay shut up. I’m not taking care of you if you faint. Close your eyes,” Harry did, against his better judgement, “Good. Now, deep breaths. Nothing bad has happened. Nothing bad is going to happen.”

Louis’ hands were warm and firm around his wrists. Harry wondered if Louis could feel his pulse, fluttering like a hummingbird, “So you’ve got feelings for me. I’m in a relationship… we’re not… it’s not a big deal, stop freaking out…” Louis paused, maybe weighing something up, just for a second, “you big queer freak.”

Harry laughed thinly, which seemed to trick his lungs into remembering the rhythm for breathing, though it was still too fast, he could at least sense the feeling coming back into his fingers and toes.

“Fuck you,” Harry mumbled, pulling his wrists weakly from Lou’s grip, utterly exhausted, his heart still skipping unpleasantly under his ribs.

“Fuck you.” Louis agreed, lunging forward and pulling Harry into a tight hug. Harry relented, pushing his face into Lou’s shoulder and taking a deep, shuddering breath. It only lasted a handful of seconds, and then Lou pulled away, wriggling his way back under the covers as if he’d never moved at all.

Harry felt somehow a little annoyed that Louis was so quick to dismiss his life-changing revelation to the same basket as, like, a missed train, or a mistaken order at a coffee shop. But maybe that’s all it was. Just a little blip in their friendship.

“So, Dracula Untold. What will be revealed?” Louis was fumbling with the remote, pressing ‘agree’ and then ‘play’. Harry, still a little shaky, managed to get under the covers, though he still felt safer sitting up.

Louis commentary went from amused and acerbic to sparse, and genuinely furious, that such a horrendous film had ever been allowed to be made. Slowly, Harry’s heart-rate normalised, his breathing evened out, but he couldn’t focus on the film, his mind still skipping like a scratched record. Harry thought maybe Forgetting Sarah Marshall with German Dubbing would have been a better choice. By the time the film reached it’s gory crescendo, Harry was lying down, half dosing, wondering which characters he was supposed to be rooting for.

“We’ll find you a nice boy, Harold.” Lou mumbled.

Unsure how to respond to that, Harry rolled onto his side. He pouted at Louis a little, mostly because that’s how his face rested. He was quiet a moment, considering his response.

“What if I don’t want nice?”

Louis right eyebrow raised fractionally, “You’re getting nice. Who doesn’t want nice?”

Harry shrugged and rolled back onto his back, “I suspect Liam can only get an erection if he’s in a school uniform and a woman with a whip is telling him his muscles are too small.”

“Well that’s accurate, I suppose. Are you the same?”

“No… no. I suppose nice is okay.” He conceded.

“Good… nice it is.”

Louis had rolled onto his side at some point. Harry was staring at the ceiling, willing the awful Dracula movie to end. Maybe Lou would be up for watching something else. Harry didn’t really feel like sleeping. He was what his mother would call ‘overtired’. He should probably go for a walk or take a sleeping tablet.

Suddenly, with no warning, he felt Lou’s warm, thin fingers prize his own hand from where it rested on his stomach. Harry’s eyes widened and he started to sit up. His mouth was trying to form some kind of verbal response, but whether it was protest or question he wasn’t sure.

Louis eyes were fixed on the television, but he’d deliberately taken Harry’s hand, and linked their fingers together. Harry wanted to ask him what the fuck he thought he was doing, but… he also just wanted to hold onto that small, warm connection. Just for a moment. And not question it. And pretend that was a normal, friend thing to do.

And surely that was harmless?

So he tried to relax, as much as he could, and willed his hand not to be weirdly sweaty, and willed himself not to be painfully aroused by having his fucking hand held.

When the Dracula film ended, Louis didn’t let his hand go. He didn’t ask, either, he just put on another movie, something animated, and settled in. Louis’ witty scornful film commentary was reserved for live-action thrillers, so now they lay there in silence. Eventually, Louis’ grip loosened, and his breathing became deep and even. Harry reclaimed his hand, holding it with his own for a moment. He reached for the remote and flicked the TV off, then he lay in the dark, staring towards the ceiling.

He thought of taking Louis’ glasses off for him. He thought about whether he’d ever held anyone’s hand for that long before. Mostly he thought, what the fuck was that? Over and over again. The dark ceiling provided no reassurances or answers, but sleep was not forthcoming. Harry didn’t know what else to do except lie there, though, so he did, waiting for the sun to rise again.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mad angst, second act. Is Louis leading Harry on, or is it more complicated than that. Are they meant to be, or meant to fall apart?

They arrived home from Europe on a Friday evening. It was coming close to Christmas, and the airport bore hints of decoration, little ornaments and the odd string of twinkly lights. Since Germany, it seemed the world had somehow righted on its axis. The uneasy, lurching awkwardness of the preceding six months had eased, just a little. Harry wouldn’t have said, exactly, that things were back to normal. But things were… better, maybe. More bearable. And they had a break now, a long break from touring. That felt like a good thing too.

“S’gonna be your birthday soon, Lou,” Harry mumbled. His voice was shot, as it always was after a tour. His throat felt worn out. His voice seemed to surprise Louis a little as they ambled behind Liam to baggage claim. Harry had sort of surprised himself with the statement.

“Shit… yeah, I’m getting old… will you still love me when I’m sixty-four?” Louis half-sang, his voice throaty and his tone a little sarcastic.

Harry pursed his lips momentarily, glad he was a step behind Lou. He wasn’t quite sure how to react, yet, when Louis tried on this semi-flirtatious banter. He wondered if Louis was doing it intentionally, because it was how they’d used to talk.

“No. I think I’m going to exclusively date twenty-year-old catwalk models. That’s my type now,” Harry deadpanned, replying without really thinking, and then regretting it. Was he allowed to joke about this stuff? Louis, for his part, didn’t seem much bothered. By anything. Harry wondered if there was _anything_ he could say to Louis that would bother him. That train of thought had begun to be quite common for Harry, and it was irritating, a persistent, frustrating itch.

“Fair enough.”

Louis found a post to lean against, placing his backpack near his feet and watching the conveyor belt distractedly. Liam would get their bags anyway, he fancied the way his shoulders looked when he bent over to pull a suitcase onto the tiles. Harry wondered if he should offer to take photos for him.

Harry still hadn’t quite managed to come out to anyone except Louis, Taylor and Ed. He was planning to tell his mum and sister though, on the upcoming weekend. He wasn’t scared or hesitant to do it, exactly, but he wanted to do it in person. He also wanted to forestall either Gemma or his mum trying to hook him up with anyone for as long as possible. He thought of the boys in his home town, tried to picture any of them as romantic prospects, and maybe visibly flinched.  

“Are you going to be at the flat this weekend?” Louis asked with what seemed to Harry like affected nonchalance.

“No. Going home. Mum’s doing an early Christmas thing,” Harry felt the urge to invite Louis, as once would have been automatic. He tried to let it go, “Why? Secret sex party?”

“Yeah. Gonna turn your room into a sort of S&M lair I think.”

“Fine. Mind the desk though, I don’t think it could support the weight of two people. Do you want to come? To mum’s? I’m sure she’d love to have you…” Harry cursed his stupid mouth, always so eager to immediately betray any urge or thought that came to his head.

“Can’t, sorry Haz. I’m having Ele over. Haven’t seen her since Paris…” For a moment Louis looked as if he might say more, and then he shrugged.

“Ah.” Harry froze up a little, and re-focussed his attention to Liam, who had taken off his hoodie and was wrangling bags as if they were rowdy cattle. There was a fair pause. Harry had let his mind drift a little, finding that exhaustion and jet lag were compressing the peaks out of his emotional range.

“You could come home with me for my birthday, though. Johannah would go nuts.”

“Oh… yeah, cool. I’ll have to check.” Harry cleared his throat. He sounded pubescent. He needed to take better care of his throat.

“Cool… cool. It’s only five-thirty, do you want to get groceries tonight?”

“Nah, too tired. Curry?”

“Yeah, we can order in the cab.”

Liam herded off all of their bags and guitars in due course. Harry grabbed his duffel and, without much thought, Louis’ guitar. Louis always had a lot of extra luggage – he packed for every conceivable eventuality, and many that weren’t conceivable, and he shopped like a man possessed. Harry’s own guitar had gotten lost somewhere in Amsterdam. He hoped it had found a good home full of love and made a mental note to buy a new one – not that he didn’t have others, but, any excuse.

They took a taxi back to the flat after saying their goodbyes. The end of tour was always a little sad, but they’d done the big emotional farewells on the last night of shows and being back in London felt like a return to the comfortable, flattened banality of the commonplace. Everything was pleasantly deadened, from Harry’s usually tumultuous emotions to the sound of fat, slow rain drops on the cab roof.

About halfway back to the flat, Harry was getting quite close to dosing, his cheek resting on the cold glass of the cab window. He was lulled by the glistening yellow glow of lights dancing through the droplets of water just a few reinforced millimetres from his eyes. Distantly, in the same agreeably flattened way that every other sensation was filtering through to his exhausted brain, he registered Louis’ hand against his, first just resting on top and then gently weaving against him until their fingers were interlocked. Louis did this now, sometimes. Just held his hand, for no apparent reason.

Before The Meeting, that fateful day with Alice, Harry and Louis had spent quite a lot of time in one-another’s spheres. It had been performative affection, the realm of Stage Harry, the version of Harry that, resplendent in slim cut pastel chinos, was proud of his bad jokes, confident in his appearance, and casually comfortable in his body. It was casual, playful touching – heads on shoulders, legs flung over legs, arms slung around hips. Harry could remember how it felt to indulge in it – a little like eating too much fast food, satisfying and sickening, somehow both pleasant and unpleasant. It had, at least, been easy to compartmentalise it, to lock it away from his real self, because they hardly ever touched behind closed doors. They’d never touched like this.

They’d never held hands. Not in public, and certainly never alone. These gentle touches were different –  chocolate and wine, rather than chips and lollies. They felt sweet, rich, textured. If Harry let himself think about it for too much time, they felt sensual.

Harry liked holding hands. When he thought about touch, and connection, he thought about his hands. There was something about fingers meeting fingers, about palms touching – a kind of undemanding intimacy that made Harry’s chest tight and his stomach warm.  

Harry couldn’t quite compartmentalise it, keep it away from his secret, anxious desires. He thought he’d found a work-around, though, in imagining it as a normal, friendly sort of thing to do. He could almost make himself believe that it was just a cosmopolitanism. Certainly, in some parts of the world (he’d googled it) non-romantic, non-sexual handholding was a genuine thing. It was quite common in some parts of Asia and the Middle East – not usually where cosmopolitan trends originated, but why not? Harry could be cutting-edge.

Anyway, it did seem like something that could be quite nice to do with friends. He wouldn’t mind holding Taylor’s hand, or Niall’s, or anyone’s… so what if he just liked holding Louis’ hand that little bit more?

This comforting trail of thoughts often reached a dead-end when Harry reflected that it stopped being a normal, friendly way to share affection when one party had professed themselves in love with the other and had it confirmed that it was unrequited. Louis did seem fairly determined to never mention, allude to or acknowledge that Harry had ever said he loved him, though, which Harry thought was most likely for the best.  

When the cab pulled up at their building, Louis pulled his hand away, ostensibly to pay the cab fare, although Harry couldn’t help but notice that his fingers only slipped from Harry’s grasp when the dome light flicked on.

*

Harry didn’t really know what to expect in coming out to his family. He wasn’t really worried that it would go badly, but as he drove out of the city, and as suburbs gave way to woodland and farms, he became increasingly nervous. He was a little embarrassed, he supposed, to so clearly define himself as a sexual being in front of his mum and step-dad. It felt declarative in a way that he couldn’t imagine bringing home a girlfriend would have.

There was also this guilty, uncomfortable sadness – it was slight, but present. He couldn’t exactly pin it down, but he felt somehow as if he was taking something from his mum. Maybe it was that he’d never give her the simple narrative – her son getting married to a woman in a pretty dress, buying a house with a yard, getting a collie dog and having babies. Logically, realistically, he knew that maybe one day he could marry the man of his dreams (it still took _effort_ not to picture Louis when he thought of that), and that they could find a way to have a family. Logically he knew that even if he were more attracted to women, he might still never have met anyone that wanted to marry him and raise children with him. He knew that the weird guilt that accompanied his nerves was unfounded, and probably represented his internalised homophobia – it wasn’t so easy to dismiss, though.

Harry sort of felt like he was pre-emptively grieving, that this was part of a journey that was changing his life fundamentally and irrevocably, and it wasn’t that the life after would be worse, necessarily, but maybe it would be harder, and no matter what, it would be different. It was painful to close the door on things that he’d imagined, as a child, were just normal and inevitable parts of growing up. It was painful, also, to think about how telling his mum he was gay might change the way she saw him. He knew she wouldn’t hate him, or kick him out, or say he was disgusting. But would she, in some secret part of herself, be disappointed?

Gemma was sitting on the stone steps of the house when Harry pulled up, waiting. All of the anxious, uncomfortable thoughts that had escalated throughout his hours of driving crumpled into nothing at once, a deflated balloon, and all Harry felt was uncomplicated joy. He parked and stepped out of the car onto crunchy gravel. He could smell wood-fire smoke and wet leaves. Home. He left his meagre luggage for a moment and stepped up to Gemma, wrapping his arms around her, “Geeemmmmm.”

“Harrryyyyy,” Gemma sang into his shoulder, rocking with him in the hug for a minute, “I’ve been waiting! It’s been too long. Missed you,” She withdrew from the hug and held Harry at Arm’s length, examining him, “How are you?”

“Good, Gem. I missed you too. How are you?”

“Excellent. Mum’s made this alcoholic eggnog that’s about eighty percent bourbon… it’s all very exciting.”

“Have you had some?”

“No, not yet, mum told me I’m not to start drinking until the sun sets.”

“I suppose that’s not unreasonable. Can you help me with my stuff?”

“’Course,” Gem trailed Harry to the car and watched as Harry opened the boot, pulling out his new guitar and backpack.

“I wanted to…” Harry looked up at Gemma, and then, surprising himself and Gemma, laughed, “Sorry. This is so weird. I wanted to tell you before we go inside. Gem. I’m gay. I’m going to tell mum, you know, this weekend I guess. But…” he shrugged.

“Oh, wow, Haz,” Gemma abandoned her grip on the soft case of Harry’s guitar, placed it gently back against the rear bumper of the car and wrapped Harry in another hug, “Cool. That’s like, a huge thing though. Wow. Shit.”

Harry felt his eyes unexpectedly fill with tears. He wasn’t sure what emotion he was feeling. He hugged Gemma back tightly. Gemma was the first to pull away, resuming her attempt to shoulder the guitar bag and reaching for Harry’s laptop, “What am I allowed to ask – are you seeing someone? Is this a new thing? If you’ve been out for years and you’re just telling me now I’ll be mad. You know I love gay clubs. Also I read in a magazine last week that you’re still dating Kendall Jenner now, so, you should ring her and tell her that’s off.”

Harry snorted, grabbing his backpack and reaching up to rub his eyes a little self-consciously.

“I’m not seeing anyone. It’s not new exactly. I mean, I’ve known for ages I think, really… I just wasn’t ready. I’ve never gone gay clubbing. Yet. So if you know any good ones that would be great. I’m sure Kendall will be fine.”

“Yeah, she’s too pretty for you anyway.”

“Hey, no she’s not, piss off Gemma.”

Gemma laughed freely, nudging into Harry to try and throw him off balance. When they were inside, Harry was surprised by how welcome the warmth of the house was. Gemma stripped off several layers of coat and sweater and slipped out of heavy boots. Harry only had on a jumper and canvas runners – he hadn’t registered it, but it must have been freezing outside.

“Muuuuuuuum, Harry’s home,” Gemma called through the house, plodding her way up stairs, presumably to put Harry’s guitar and computer in his room. Harry left his backpack by the door, taking off his sneakers. The house smelt good. It smelt like his mum’s careful cooking and of clean carpet and laundry. Anne emerged from the direction of the family room and Harry stepped in to kiss her cheek.

“Hello, how was your drive?” She had pursed her lips to tug at one of Harry’s curls immediately, “Your hair’s getting very long darling.”

“Hi mum,” Harry responded, leaning into her.

“Come on, I’ve got the kettle on. Do you want a cuppa?”

“Yes please,” Harry trailed his mum into the kitchen. Preparations for the family dinner were apparent – cakes cooling, pots and pans stacked in the sink and sitting on the hob, and bottles of wine and liquor on every spare surrface.

“Are people coming tonight?”

“No, just us tonight. I’m just trying to get some of the things that will last out of the way so that tomorrow is a bit quieter.”

“Good idea. Gem says there’s eggnog.”

“Lord help me, I’ve raised a family of alcoholics. It’s only just three, we will wait to five to start drinking like civilised people.”

“I’m on… Europe time?”

“You will have a cup of tea and you will like it. Now tell me about Europe.”

*

When Harry had been about three, maybe four, he’d once taken it into his head to make Anne a cup of tea. He’d set about the task with meticulous care, first finding his mother’s favourite mug, and then arranging it with the teabag, the milk, and a teaspoon on the kitchen counter. That settled, he’d taken on the task of boiling the kettle. He’d been _so_ careful with the kettle. He knew he wasn’t supposed to use it on his own, but he thought, in this case, his mum would be so impressed with her cup of tea, that maybe she wouldn’t mind.

With the use of a tall stool and all of the focus he could muster, he’d managed to make what was, in his view, a perfect cup of tea. Delighted with the weak, sugary concoction, he’d picked up the mug, forgetting it would be hot. He burnt his little fingers slightly – they were red and still smarted a few hours later - but worse, he’d smashed his mother’s favourite mug all over the tiles. It was beyond repair. Harry was sure of that immediately.

Tearfully, furious at himself, and still in pain a little, Harry had immediately gone to find his mother and tell her what he’d done. He’d expected her to be angry and disappointed with him, and maybe punish him. Instead, she’d picked him up and taken him to the bathroom to run his hands under cold water. She’d told him it was silly to use the kettle without help, but she was proud of him for telling her what he’d done, and flattered that he’d thought about making her a tea. And no, she wasn’t mad about the mug, as long as Harry was okay, as long as he’d learnt to be more careful with hot water, it was all fine.

Coming out to Anne was kind of like that. All of the anticipation and fear Harry mustered sort of melted. In the end, Anne was the easiest person to tell. And unlike the foray with the cup of tea, this time there was no lesson to be learnt except maybe that he could probably tell his mum he’d done a murder and she’d still just tell him that she loved him and ask him if he was eating enough.

*

Harry spent the entire subsequent weekend drunk on a cocktail of relief and acceptance and also on eggnog and wine. He set up Netflix and tried to explain to his mum how to use it, then watched an inadvisable 13 straight hours of nostalgic television with Gemma. He left his phone in the house and walked the dogs until his thighs and feet hurt. He took long naps and played guitar without aim or intent. He wrote some songs. He fantasised again about just giving it all up, moving home – maybe becoming a hermit, it had seemed to work for the blonde one from ABBA.

Getting in the car to drive back to London had been physically painful.

*

Harry didn’t see Louis until late on Tuesday afternoon. Harry was in the kitchen holding a saucepan and leaning over his iPad on the kitchen bench, scrolling through recipes and trying to decide whether he actually had the energy to cook a meal. Louis looked as if he was maybe returning from the gym. He entered the kitchen from the hall in gym socks and a pair of tracksuit-shorts that Harry was fairly sure belonged to him and looked ridiculous on Lou’s skinny legs.

“Good workout?”

“Yeah. I need to quit smoking.”

“You should.”

“No.”

Harry sighed, smiled a little, and looked up from the iPad, “You home for dinner? What do you want?”

“Yeah actually. Are you cooking? Do we have anything?”

“Yeah I did a shop. I was thinking maybe a stew?”

“Sounds good. Did you ever figure if you could come up home for my birthday?”

Harry had decided and then un-decided about going to Louis’ mum’s about 6,000 times. He tried to look relaxed about.

“Oh yeah I forgot about that. I can come if you still want me.”

“Cool, I’ll tell mum.”

“Cool.” Harry went back to his recipe search, but he could sense Louis standing in the doorway, staring at him. After an uncomfortable minute, Harry looked back up.

“Alright, stare-bear?”

“Me and Ele broke up.” Louis rushed out the sentence, as if he hadn’t made a conscious choice to say it. Harry’s eyebrows raised without conscious input from his brain as he tried to figure out what the most appropriate response was. He liked Eleanor fine, she was nice. Louis seemed to like her, they seemed happy together. Louis’ expression was inscrutable.  

“Oh. Well shit. That… that sucks. What… why?”

Harry allowed a moment – just the smallest moment – where he imagined Louis saying it was for him. His stomach flipped uncomfortably and he stood up straight, finally setting down his saucepan.

Louis shrugged, “Dunno. She was sick of the long-distance, touring thing. She met someone else. I think the worst thing is I’m not even… that sad. I mean, I’m sad but. I’m not… _sad_.”

Harry nodded, “So she broke up with you?” as soon as Harry said it, he wished he could retract it. It was such blunt, strange question.

“Sort of mutual, I ‘spose,” Louis was leaning against the doorframe now, not looking at Harry any longer, “It sounds bad but… it’s sort of a relief, actually. When she wasn’t around I wasn’t thinking about her. She wanted to quit her job and just tour with us full time this year… she asked before Europe, and I said no. She said she was still upset about that and she met another guy who was ready to really commit… so…” Louis shrugged.

Harry still didn’t really know what to say. He tried to imagine how it would feel – Eleanor and Louis had been going out for ages. Harry had never had a relationship that lasted more than a handful of dates. He imagined Louis saying they couldn’t be friends anymore, and that felt like a knife to the liver, but Louis didn’t sound like he felt like he’d been stabbed in any major organs.

After a while he came up with the brilliant, “Well… that sucks. I’m sorry Lou.”

“Nah, it’s okay. Feels like it should feel more significant than it does.” Louis laughed, maybe a tad more hoarsely than usual. Harry wondered if he should offer a hug.

“It… is just going to feel how it feels, I guess.”

“I guess so. Um… anyway, I’m going for a shower.”

“Okay, tea will be…” Harry looked down at his watch and made a quick estimation, “I guess six thirty, seven? We can have a drink to commiserate, maybe.”

“Great. Yum. You want to go to the movies after?”

The question took Harry aback, just a little. They hadn’t gone out anywhere together (especially not Alone Together) for at least a year. He nodded, “Sure… yeah…” the usual follow up questions (‘is there anything on, should we invite Niall, should we get snacks from the supermarket on the way’) didn’t occur to Harry to ask. He was already imagining the smell of popcorn and the cold, dim room and Louis’ fingers threaded between his, a little cold from his coke. He could already feel the weight of their linked hands resting on his thigh.

Louis grinned broad, “Great.” And disappeared to the shower. A little mechanically, Harry set about chopping onions and carrots, trying to arrest any date-fantasies as they occurred to him and usually failing. He was such an idiot.

*

At ten minutes past four on Christmas Morning, Harry was wide awake. Instead of the shimmering, charmed anticipation of upcoming seasonal joy, it was a bloated stomach and a threatening headache that kept him lying on his side, staring at the sliver of sky visible through the curtains in Lou’s sister’s room.

He’d only been home about an hour. It had been Louis’ birthday the night before. They’d had family dinner, then Louis’ “lad” friends had shown up. Harry had trailed after them without much enthusiasm as they walked into town to find (predictably) that nothing was open. Unperturbed, they’d returned to someone called ‘Magic Mike’s’ house and, to try and quell the nauseating anxiety of the social situation he found himself in, to try and brighten himself up, Harry had started to drink. He wasn’t usually much for beer or tequila, but those were Magic Mike’s drinks of choice. Harry was reminded of Liam, although to Liam’s credit, he was in much better shape than Magic Mike.

When they’d returned to Louis house (at Harry’s nagging insistence, which made his stomach cringe a little to remember), Harry had forced a litre of water down his own throat and a glass down Lou’s, then steered Louis to his bed and tucked him in (recovery position, just in case, although Louis had already ‘puked and rallied’ several times).

Harry had taken a shower as quietly as he could, and he’d figured sleep would come easily, but he felt sick and uncomfortable and simultaneously too cold and too hot. He couldn’t think of anything that might make him feel better, so he just hoped that he’d manage to slip off to sleep before the sun rose, because he knew he’d have no chance after that. Christmas lunch with Louis’ family, no sleep and a hangover seemed like it would probably be too much to handle.

After Christmas, Harry was flying to New York to see Taylor. He found thinking about this soothing, so he pursued it. He imagined her guest bed, her blackout blinds and her cats. He thought about finding a nice restaurant to try with her – maybe somewhere his band wouldn’t go, somewhere raw vegan or experimental Japanese. He thought about asking her if she knew anyone who might be into an anxious, neurotic but surprisingly wealthy and somewhat famous boyband member. He built up a slow, indulgent fantasy about this nameless, faceless man and the happy life they could have together. Before long, though his eyes were still somewhat open, he was nearly dosing, calmed by the peaceful fantasy.

He started violently when he heard a knock on the door, which opened without Harry having a chance to respond.

“Haz,” Harry could smell the liquor and cigarettes on Louis from across the room. His stomach turned unhappily. The moment of pleasant and promising sleepiness was gone, and the discomfort returned.

“Haz you awake? I can’t sleep.”

“Mmhm,” Harry responded, sitting up a little, “you okay?”

“Can I sleep in here?”

Harry wanted to say no. He wanted to tell Louis to go back to his own bed. He wanted to say yes, of course, you’re always welcome in my bed. He wanted to tell Louis to fuck off. He pushed himself up on his elbows, trying to make Louis out, “yeah. Come on then.”

He couldn’t really see Louis, just a muted shadow that stumbled across the room and tipped into the bed, snailing its way up until it was beside Harry. Harry shuffled over to give Louis more room. There was a quiet pause, and Harry returned to laying down, rolling back onto his side. Any hope of sleep seemed distant and wishful, for a moment, but then there was a long, still silence. Harry tried to find the thread of his relaxing fantasy, but his nameless, faceless partner kept taking Louis’ face, so Harry diverted his brain to thinking about what kind of dog he’d like to buy. That was nice, for a minute.

And then he felt Louis’ hand, clammy and too-hot, rouche up his shirt over his hip. Harry’s whole body tensed, and his heart jammed itself up in his throat, skipping a frantic rhythm there. Louis didn’t stop. He shuffled closer to Harry, letting his hand slide down over Harry’s sensitive stomach and pressing his entire body up against Harry’s back.

In Harry’s head all he could think was ‘no, no, no, no’. He was instantly half-hard, despite it. Louis hand sent shocks of fizzing electricity . He swallowed, frozen for a moment by Louis’ touch, both welcome and unwelcome. Isn’t this what he wanted? Yes, but not like this. He rolled over onto his back. Louis didn’t move, still curled up against him, now gripping Harry’s left hip.

“’Lo,” Louis said quietly.

“What are you doing?”

“Cuddling you. ‘M allowed, you love me.”

Harry furrowed his brow, “Lou, come on… you’re drunk.”

“’M not tha drunk.”

“You are. Let me take you back to bed.”

“No. You love me. I wanna… don’t you wanna…”

Louis didn’t really manage to ask a question, so Harry didn’t try and respond. He sat up. Louis hand fell onto Harry’s left knee, and Louis used this anchor point to push himself to a sitting position too, facing Harry. Harry’s ears were ringing with the words Louis wasn’t saying.

Lou’s lips were full and pouting, his eyes wide and wanting even in the dim half-light. God how Harry wanted to cover the distance, press their lips together. Without warning, Louis leant forward. In the split second it took Harry to process it, he turned his head, earning himself a wet kiss to his cheek.

“Louis, stop it,” Harry tried to sound forceful. What he was feeling was physical pain. He was furious at Louis. Louis, who had been in the process of trying to crawl into Harry’s lap, stopped moving, went stiff and sat up.

“Oh,” Louis said, his eyes narrowing a little as if he were trying to pull Harry to focus, “I thought…”

He was desperate to pull the other man into his arms, but just as equally, he wanted to run away. He wanted to run until he got to London. Until he got to Heathrow. Until he was in the sky, on the way to South America, or Japan, or Australia. The furthest away he could get.

“What did you think, Louis? That… that…” all the venom and anger left Harry immediately, and he was left with sadness. Sadness and a sudden clarity, “That because I’m gay and because… because I have feelings for you that I would fuck you when you’re drunk and horny?”

“No… no not that,” Louis voice was thick, unsure.

“Then… then what, Lou?”

“Just that we could… try it.”

Harry shook his head, “Try it? Louis I’m not… you can’t do that to me. I’m not…” he shrugged, defeated, “I’m not a new… fucking brand of yoghurt. I don’t want to be… a flavour of the week for you. You’re not that for me.”

Louis didn’t seem to know how to respond. His head was bowed and his shoulders were slumped. It came back to Harry just how fucking drunk Louis was. Harry had mostly sobered up, always a little bit of a lightweight anyway, but Louis could and _did_ drink hard. With a shaking hand Harry reached out and pushed Louis’ shoulder gently.

“Lou… it’s okay. Come on, you’re too drunk. It’s Christmas… just… go to sleep.”

“Can I stay here?” Louis asked mournfully.

Against Harry’s better judgement, he nodded, his throat dry again, “Yeah,” he mumbled.

Louis retreated to his side of the bed and curled up on his side. Harry pulled the covers up over his shoulders. He sat up a while longer, staring at the lump of Louis under the covers. Sleep, he assumed, was no longer a possibility. He scooched himself up to the top of the bed and pulled his knees up to his chest. He thought about reaching for his phone, but his head felt heavy and his eyes were sore and he couldn’t think of anything he wanted to do on it anyway. He dropped his head to his knees, turning his head back to Louis. In just a few short minutes, unexpectedly, he fell asleep.

*

Harry woke up with a tight neck and a sore throat. At some point in the night, he’d slipped down in the bed, but the position his body had found had not been a comfortable one. He could sense the bed was empty straight away. He tried not to read into it. Maybe what had happened in the early morning had been a horrible nightmare brought on by cheap, crappy booze.

“Haz you awake?” Lou’s voice sounded coarse but surprisingly cheerful, “Made you a coffee. Time to get ready.”

Harry rolled miserably out of bed and pulled the door open. Louis took him in and frowned, “You look rough.”

“Coffee,” Harry took the steaming mug from Louis and went back to sit on the bed. Lou hovered in the doorway for a minute, and then he walked in, pulling the door shut behind him. In the daylight, Lottie’s room was chaotic – piles of makeup palettes, clothes on every flat surface, jewellery hanging from the corners of every piece of furniture. Louis sat primly on a wicker chair, cupping his own mug. The silence was not uncomfortable, but it was present, tangible. Harry let them live in it, unwilling to open his mouth for anything other than hot caffeine.

They were silent for long enough for Harry to feel the first comforting thrills of caffeine hitting his system, easing his headache slightly.

“So,” Louis said after a long moment, “Last night…”

Harry quickly found himself tiring of the conversation, before it had even happened. What else was there to say? He looked up at Louis, but didn’t respond.

“I’m sorry. I was drunk. I didn’t know what I was doing. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

Harry’s chest tightened. He nodded his head once, took a long drink.

“It’s fine.” He sounded insincere but he didn’t really care. It wasn’t fine, but maybe he had to forgive Louis. Maybe Louis was trying. Maybe this was Harry’s fault, anyway? He’d started it, hadn’t he?

The silence descended again, this time it was heavier. Harry looked up at Louis, scanning his face. Louis looked impassive, calm. The only hint that anything was wrong was a slight furrow to his brow. Harry wanted to shake him, just a little.

“No… no it isn’t fine. But I am sorry.”

Harry nodded again. He looked back down at his coffee. He said everything he wanted to say the night before. Well, maybe not everything. Everything he had the confidence to say.

“I forgive you.”

Harry set his mug down and stood up, opening his arms. Louis stood up too, touching his head to Harry’s shoulder. Harry wrapped Louis up tightly in his arms, resting his cheek against Louis’ soft hair. He could feel the warmth of Lou’s mug pressed gently to his back, Lou’s other hand spread between his shoulder blades.

“You’re my best friend Harry,” Louis said against his shoulder, “And I really do love you… if I’ve never said it before. I do. I wish… I wish it was different. I wish…”

“Lou, shut up and hug it out.” Harry said gently, rubbing Lou’s back. He tried to pull away after another moment, aware of the length of the hug. Aware that it was too comfortable for him. Louis didn’t let him. Louis’ hand moved from his shoulder to his neck. Harry stiffened.

“Louis…” he said, warningly, but without heart. Louis lifted his head, catching Harry’s eye and holding his gaze.

“Yes?” Louis replied.

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but found that he couldn’t get it out. He swallowed instead, searching Louis’ eyes. Frissons of shuddering warmth coiled in Harry’s stomach. He could feel Louis’ body against his, thigh to chest. He could feel the rhythm of Louis’ breath, steady and even. Louis smelled good – soap and shaving cream and the faintest, sweetest hint of tobacco in his hair. Harrry couldn’t bear it for one more second. He leant in, just close enough to make his intentions clear, and then, the rest of the way.

Their lips meant so gently at first, it took Harry’s breath away. Louis free hand moved up to Harry’s hair. Harry felt dizzy. Louis’ lips parted just a little bit, the kiss deepened and Harry moved his hands to Louis’ hips, gripping firmly. Harry could have lived there forever, every ache and pain in his body forgotten, is heart full and his blood bright and tingling through his veins.

Louis pulled out of the kiss first, but he didn’t pull away. His hand, in Harry’s hair, remained there, and their foreheads fell naturally together. Harry was breathless, and his brain, for just a moment, was blissfully, peacefully silent. Just for a moment.

“There,” Louis said after a moment, “Not drunk.”

Harry laughed weakly, “Mmhm, not drunk.” He lifted his head just a little, pushing a chunk of Louis’ fringe out of his face.

And then Lottie’s bedroom door opened. Louis physically pushed Harry away from him, a quarter cup of tea spilled down Harry’s side. He hissed, stumbling backwards onto the bed, his eyes wide and shocked and hurt, his lips puffy and red.

“Harry! I wasn’t sure if you’d be here!” Lottie flung herself at Harry, kissing his cheek. Harry patted her back weakly, trying to catch Louis’ eyes over Lottie’s shoulder.

“Yeah I’m here for lunch,” Harry nodded.

“Why are you wet?”

“Louis spilled his tea on me,” Harry said, his anxious, tumultuous thoughts crashing back in loudly, pouring in through the cracks created by the shock of being pushed so suddenly and firmly away.

“Oh no! Louis! Are you burnt?”

“Mm no,” Harry shook his head in the negative. His skin was smarting, but not from the tea, which had been lukewarm at best when it hit his skin, “Getting cold though. Shower free?”

“I think someone’s in the downstairs one but you can use mum’s, she won’t mind.”

Harry nodded, desperate to escape one way or another from the suddenly mute Louis and the sting of what had happened. He gathered up handfuls of stuff, probably nothing approaching an outfit, “I’ll let you guys catch up,” he tried to force some cheer into his voice, “Merry Christmas.”

He found his way to Johannah’s shower. It was elegant and clean and girly and she had soaps carved into the shape of seashells. He turned the water on as hot as it would go and sunk onto the shower floor, pressing his cheek against the glass and breathing slow and deep, wishing he was home, but not knowing anymore where home was.


End file.
